


For The Good Of The People

by Faetality



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Arranged Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 01:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20055799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faetality/pseuds/Faetality
Summary: Stiles, Blood Brother Of King McCall, Advisor, Son of the Summer Kingdom, Husband Of The Wolf Peter Hale. The man rumored half feral, a cruel man, an actor of the highest order. But this was the path to an alliance, a protection against the Argent threat.Stiles would do what was needed; for the good of his people.





	For The Good Of The People

He was uncomfortable, the collar of his shirt too tight, the socks itching, the button on his sleeve sharp against his skin. He’d almost prefer to be facing the bitter cold outside without sleeves or boots if it would only mean he could stop itching. If only he could breathe. A foot behind him Scott stands to his left, his father to his right. 

The Hale lands were vast. Their power unimaginable. Their reputation held the weight of mountains. For every ounce of beauty in their kingdom the Hales were said to embody it. They were their land, and they were every bit as wild. Talia Hale was the ruler, with a manner as regal as any king from the old tales, she was as unshakable as the Lyon mountains to the north. Her child and heir, Laura as unchanging as the Emerald River. Her son Derek rumored to be as rough and stoic as the ancient trees whose roots reached the center of the earth. There were many rumors about the Hales. But it was not Derek, nor Laura, or even the great Aleksander Hale whose military legends were unmatched that was the cause of Stiles discomfort. No. Not one of them had the reputation of Peter. Peter Hale who, for all his sister was unchangeable, was as unpredictable and wild as the storms that rocked the summer nights of Stiles’ childhood. Who was said to be furious and dangerous and cruel. Who was rumored to be half feral, a wolf in all but skin. And even that was subject to discourse among the common folk. 

And it was Peter Hale he was slated to marry in naught but a moment. 

It was a marriage for power. For strategy. Stiles knew it was good, knew that another opportunity would never present itself and that was why he had suggested it. His father, noble and caring too much for his son rather than the kingdom he was sworn to protect, as parents were wont to do, would never have suggested such a thing. Would never have offered his child to the wolves on a silver dish. Which was why Stiles had done it himself. Scott, his brother in all but blood and ruler of their lands could never have done such. Couldn’t bear the thought of such a sacrifice by his own word. Stiles had assured him a thousand times over that it was the best for them. Such an offer of protection was crucial with the threats on the horizon and if the price for such protection was his hand in marriage to a being more beast than man... that was his price to pay. 

“You don’t have to do this.” 

“Yes. I do.” He doesn’t look back. Knows his resolve would crumble if he saw the look in his father’s eyes. Instead he keeps his eyes firmly on the towering doors, lets the snow whip around him and fights not to undo the collar of his shirt. Peter needed to want him. It was not too late for the prince to discard him. He needed this. His people needed this. Perhaps Peter would be handsome at the least. 

The doors swing wide and warm air bathes him. “Ready, son?” 

“Ready.” 

The hall was as grand as he could have imagined. Flowers and woven branches wrapped the great beams and hundreds of people lined each side in finery that would put the western royals to shame. Fine cloth dyed in Hale colors of red and gold draped the sides and created a path for the southern royals to walk. At the end of the hall, atop the stairs where thrones surely sat at other times, were the Hales themselves. Now, a stand sits in the center of the platform and a stern man stands behind it. The priest. On the right stands Talia Hale, towering but not unkind in her expression. She stands beside a man so like her it can only be James Hale, her guard if rumor was to be true, and in front of them both stands a man no less than ten years Stiles’ senior. Peter. Stiles stomach twists and rolls. He continues forward, head held high and shoulders back. He was here to prove himself. He was here because he was willing to do what needed to be done and he was not going to allow anyone to stop him. He would not be made afraid by Peter Hale. 

As he draws closer he has to wonder if the man truly is his husband to be. 

His hair is light, toeing the line between blond and brown, his skin was golden despite the ever present snow, and when Stiles climbs the steps he sees that the man’s eyes are blue. The same cold blue as the sky over the mountains. But he is wearing Hale colors, he holds himself as a royal and- 

“Scott McCall, you are here to give Stiles Stilinski to my brother, Prince Peter Hale in a union of our kingdoms. We will call upon you in our times of need and provide aid to you during your own. Do you agree to these terms as provided, King McCall?” 

“I agree to the terms provided, Queen Hale. I present to you Stiles Stilinski for this union.” Stiles steps forward, intensely aware of the eyes on him and how sweat was beading on his back. 

“And to you I present Peter Hale.” The man, Peter, steps forward. They join hands. Peter is warm. His grip is firm but not tight. Stiles wonders if that’s a metaphor for their future marriage. 

He barely follows the words of the ceremony. He fixes his eyes on a point to the left of Peter, unable to look in those cold eyes. He does note they’re of a height. A small victory but one nonetheless. A gentle squeeze of his fingers brings him to the present. 

“I, Peter Hale, Second Son of Elaina Hale accept Mieczyslaw Stilinski as my husband, mine to protect and to hold until death.” His name, his real name, rolls so easily off the Prince’s tongue that Stiles feels his heart beat harder.  _ This is happening.  _

The priest looks at Stiles and his mouth is dry. He licks his lips and says the words he had practiced a thousand times on the journey over. “I, Mieczclaw Stilinski, first son of Noah Stilinski and Blood Brother Of Scott McCall, do take Peter Hale as mine own. Mine to protect and to care for until death.” 

Peter reaches up and unclasps the gold wolf head that held his cloak, Stiles copies the movement with his own silver clasp, letting the cloak lay over his arm. Peter moves first, the crimson fabric is heavy and warm where it wraps around his shoulders, the strip of fur tickles his neck. He tries not to look as stiff as he feels when he moves to return the action. The deep green of his own colors changes the Prince’s features, to say it softened them would not be true, rather it made him seem less harsh. They join hands again and the priest, Deaton- he needed to remember that- nodded for them to finish the ceremony. Their kiss is short; chaste. It’s a show of bonding but not of claiming. Stiles appreciates it. For all the man was handsome his father needn’t witness anything that would set his mind to worry. Stiles had caused him enough of that for a lifetime. 

~

They have a feast, it’s loud and happy with music playing and there’s dancing and it’s wonderful. Stiles is quiet during the affair. Peter at his side matches him in the quiet. “Would you like dessert, my prince?” It startles him, the quiet voice that makes the query. It’s a young boy, curly hair and dark eyes. In his hands he carries a tray of tarts and cakes. Stiles glances to his husband, finds that those too-blue eyes are watching him like a wolf does a deer. He nods, “Yes, thank you.” 

“And you, my prince?” Peter doesn’t hesitate to take a sweet of his own, a small smile as he does. 

“You like sweets?” It’s the first words said between them since their vows. Stiles can’t help but laugh, low and maybe only the slightest touch bitter. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. Blackberry tarts were kind of my favorite growing up.” He can see his dad not far, chatting amicably with the Queen herself. He turns his attention back to Peter. This was where he belonged now, he should at least learn  _ something _ about his husband. 

“And yourself?” 

“I’m partial to them.” 

He cannot stop the dry response he gives. “Enlightening.” 

Peter- Peter honest to gods  _ snorts.  _ It’s funny,  _ human,  _ Stiles grins. Perhaps there was a man behind the mask after all. 

“Lemon cakes. I’ve had them but twice in my life so there is a chance distance is the only thing that makes me fond. Otherwise I enjoy these.” Peter lifts a delicate pastry, a cookie sprinkled with something the southerner could not hope to guess. He needn’t try, the sweet is held to his lips and though part of him rebels at the action, feeling it too much a display of submission, it would not do to anger the Queen. Not to mention Peter himself. He would like to think he is dignified when he parts lips and takes the sweet into his mouth. He does not want to dwell on onlooker’s opinions. 

“Thoughts?” 

“It’s very good.”

They were expected to dance. When the feast was winding down and the people were beginning to ready themselves to leave but before anyone was quite ready to,. Peter stood, “Would you do me the honor of a dance, husband mine?” Stiles places his hand in Peter’s and stands, allowing the man to lead him onto the floor where people parted for them easily. He sets a hand on Peter’s shoulder, feels for the first time the power that lay beneath the fine cloth, his other hand is raised with Peter’s own. With a hand on his back Peter pulls him a step closer, smirking all the while. “If you stand so far from me the masses might begin to think you don’t want to be here, Stiles.” Peter leads smoothly, each step an extension of the last, sweeping Stiles along the floor and deftly avoiding any who might have bumped into them. It is here for the first time that Stiles feels their eyes, staring hard while whispers ran the edges of the room, too faint to make out but directed at them all the same. He is both grateful and disappointed when it ends and he retakes his place at the table. Grateful to be away and disappointed with his inability to learn anything substantial about the man at his side. It was, perhaps, his own fault. He shouldn’t dwell on such things. 

*

The castle was huge. It was sprawling corridors and a thousand rooms. Peter walked them quickly and easily and Stiles wanted to explore but it was late and there was no way he could do so on his own so early into his stay. “I took the liberty to have a few of your things moved into our room already.”  _ Ours.  _ “Of course you’re welcome to choose any room you would like for a personal space but I thought you might appreciate clothing on hand.” 

“Thank you.” The room,  _ their room _ , though clearly it had been  _ Peter’s  _ room, was big. Not massive as expected but more than enough for one, even two people. Books were everywhere, on shelves, tables, stacked by the window. But even so what drew his attention was that there was no fire going in the hearth and it was  _ cold.  _ His hair stood on end and shivers threatened to wrack his frame. He draws a breath, steels himself. It wasn’t so bad. 

“Burning fires overnight wastes a lot of wood and often they burn out anyway. They’ll come in and light it before dawn.” He turns, a question on his lips that dies upon finding himself presented with miles of bared skin. Peter remains in his briefs, a small mercy but Stiles cannot help but stare. His first thought is that Peter may well have been shaped by the hands of Mirar, the crafter himself. He was stunning. If nothing else Stiles had been gifted that sight. His second thought was how much the man must have been hurt in his life. The scars were numerous, ghastly things that told of a life lived hard. When he pulls his eyes up to Peter’s face he sees nothing more than placidity. No malice, no self consciousness. His expression was as blank as the snow. “I-“ 

“I know. I’m under no illusion that you’ll be giving me your maiden head,” it’s snarky, laden with something Stiles cannot read, “but I think it best if we simply got such matters of appearance out of the way.” He’s not sure exactly what he means, but he tries to respond to what he thinks. Tried to make it clear that he is not going to be backing out of his duties. 

“I don’t care that you have them, I mean- I don’t mind them. Warrior’s marks of life are nothing any man should be judged for. I also have no issues if sharing the night is something you do or do not desire.” He isn’t sure which he would prefer. He was no stranger to pleasure of the flesh, though certainly not well acquainted. There’s a huff, something that was almost laughter. Almost. 

“Come now, change into something comfortable and get beneath the covers before you freeze. I’d hate to have to explain to your father that you got cold feet and died.” Peter slid beneath the fur covers of the massive bed and said no more. Stiles was grateful for the privacy as he struggled from the embroidered cloths and changed into a soft undershirt and pants. Peter might have been used to the cold but Stiles was not. May never be. That was made abundantly clear when he began shivering not twenty minutes after lying beside the prince even beneath the heavy throws. 

“By the gods- come here.” One strong arm winds around his stomach and drags him across the bed. He would protest if Peter wasn’t so warm. Instead he focuses on relaxing, how the warmth of the man behind him soaked into his skin and soon enough he felt as thought he might doze. How foolish was he to fall asleep with a wolf at his back? 

It is the lack of warmth that wakes him. 

He sits up only to see Peter’s silhouette in the darkness, reading by candle light. “Can’t sleep?” His eyes never moved from the pages. 

He speaks honestly. “It’s cold.” 

Then man sighs, blows out the candle, and moves back to the bed. Stiles doesn’t even pretend not to seek out the warmth but he doesn’t reach out. Doesn’t touch any more than he is touched first. The next time he wakes it’s with a fire in the hearth and Peter still beside him. He slips away from the man’s hold, twists to instead study his features. He was handsome, the scars couldn’t take that away, but there was a sharpness to him that was undeniable, something even the peace of sleep could not erase. It made him wonder about what kind of man he had agreed to marry, what kind of people survived in such harsh lands. He slips from the bed and dresses before he can be caught staring. He dresses in layers, though the castle itself had not seemed cold the days prior he was sure that if he forwent his layers he would find himself frozen by breakfast end. When Peter wakes, it’s to find him browsing the shelves in the early dawn light. 

“You wake early.” 

“Sometimes.”

He rolls from the bed, bare feet touching the cold floor with hardly a wince. 

“You must enjoy reading.” 

“Indeed. You’re welcome to read them as well.”

“Are you going to tell me ‘what’s mine is yours’?”

“No. I expect to have my privacy and my own items as you would likely prefer your own. I simply don’t believe that I should hoard knowledge from my husband who is supposed to help me when need be. If he is able of course.” It’s backhanded and mean and there is a fire that rages in Stiles' chest for it. He swallows it down. As he stares at Peter he finds the man looks almost… disappointed. It doesn’t matter. 

“My nephew has agreed to show you around the castle. I’m afraid I have matters to attend to.” He doesn’t even look his way. 

“That’s fine, we have plenty of time to be together.”  _ The rest of my life.  _

**Author's Note:**

> This work is incomplete and subject to revisions. I wants to get a chapter up for Steter Week though so it ended up cut a little weird for what I wanted.  
Comments and Kudos are appreciated and I’m always free to talk :)


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